It’s not always easy to pinpoint the precise moment you fall in love.But sometimes, well, it is.
For years upon years, I’ve given The Husband fair warning that someday out there in the future – or by the time I turn forty – we will be adopting a dog. It was a topic that he tended to nod or smile or roll his eyes at and put forth varying levels of effort to assuage my longing.Sometimes I’d get supportive discussion of just which breed suits our chosen lifestyle and other times I’d get a list of reasons why a dog just does not fit into said lifestyle.To this I’d nod or smile or roll my eyes and put forth varying levels of effort to convince him otherwise.
Then, a solid three years before the deadline, this teeny, brown, Yoda-eared Chihuahua named Layla came in to our lives.
It actually started a few days before Thanksgiving with a phone call from Dallas, a plea to help our niece adopt a dog so that she’d have a loyal companion in her new city.Despite our best efforts to talk them out of it, we helped out and the adoption went through.We didn’t give the dog another thought until four months later, our niece, her mom, sister and grandma – and Layla – relocated back to Santa Barbara.
Then, out of nowhere, one Friday night, The Husband informs me that he has found our dog. Unbeknownst to me, he'd met the dog a number of times, saw that she played well with others, and caught wind that she might have to be given up due to housing issues.
Well, I’m no idiot.I freaking jumped on it!Who cares if we never considered a Chihuahua!Who cares if our landlords said no dogs!Who cares, who cares, who cares because THIS IS MY CHANCE!
Within a week, Layla arrives at our house for a trial run.Early the first morning of her stay at our house, Layla and I go to the pet store for some necessities.On the ride home, I glance to the backseat to check on her.There she was.Curled up on the towel I’d put down for her, eagerly staring back at me with those ridiculously large, ridiculously expressive eyes.
Aaand I was a goner. Stomach flip.Heart flutter. Hiccup with the happy tears.Love.
In the hours leading up to Layla’s arrival at our house, The Husband’s nerves over inviting another being to share our space were getting the better of him.What if she follows me around everywhere I go? What if I have to change my morning routine for her?What if? What if?
By the afternoon of the first day, The Husband stops me as we pass each other in the living room.He lowers his eyes and sheepishly, barely able to speak, says, “I have a confession to make.”
“What? What is it?”
He pauses.The words caught in his throat, somewhere between not being sure he can say it out loud and not being sure he wants me to hear it in the first place.My efforts to coax it out of him were failing when it suddenly dawns on me and my stomach flips again.
“You…LOVE her, don’t you!”
He raises his tearing eyes to mine, smiles, and nods.
I sure do love a shared experience, and walking 39.3 miles over two days with more than 2,800 other people is one hell of an experience to share. Actually, let me rephrase that because it wasn't like hell at all...not that I've ever been to hell. Except, well, one could argue that watching a loved one dying from cancer has a certain level of hellaciousness to it. And, really, that is why I participated in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer this year: I'm seeking ways to rearrange the painful sadness of Annika's illness and death into something I can continue living with in a positive, laughing, helpful-to-others kind of way. So, you know, why not raise some money and go on a long walk?
Still, I was nervous to make the commitment until I heard from a dear old friend - well, she's all of 35 years old but we've known each other since forever, that kind of old. Nicole tells me she found a lump, it's the Big C and she's headed through the ringer of chemo, radiation and mastectomies. So, what do you do when you're so far away that you can't take her to her appointments or go wig shopping or really do much of anything but share a few tears and send her a mug that reads "Fuck Cancer"? I'll tell you what you do, you agree to raise some money and go on a long walk.
And you share that experience with thousands of others who have also been affected by cancer - any kind of cancer - and are desperate to save every other human being from having to share any part of that experience ever again.
When I first signed up to participate in this event, I was alone...a solo walker feeling more than slightly nervous about the $1800 fundraising requirement to even be allowed to walk. Of course, this didn't last long because two of my local friends joined me and, by the magic of the small-world interwebs, we landed in the midst of one kick-ass group of ladies that is team Walking for the Girls!
It sort of felt like we were all the Wonder Twins activating into the form of a seventeen-strong, compassionately generous sisterhood of supportive, giddy, limping walkers. As a group, we raised over $40,000, which ends up being something like 1/160th of the grand total of $6.4 million raised by the entirety of the Santa Barbara walkers. It feels great knowing that the funds so generously donated by our friends and family will go towards local and national programs to provide education and treatment to underserved communities and uninsured cancer patients, as well as helping to fund clinical studies and research for a cure to breast cancer.
So, yes, it's true! We put one foot in front of the other for two days. We slept in tents and showered in trucks. We ate sack lunches and drank freaky sports drinks. We shared stories and tears. We wore matching shirts with lists too long of names of loved ones affected by or lost to cancer. We collected blisters and aching knees. We were cheered on by awesome support crews. We posed for pictures at mile markers, of which there were many. We laughed at boob jokes, of which there were many more. It was surreal as much as it was authentic, exhilarating as much as it was exhausting, introspective as much as it was a group event.
At the opening and closing ceremonies that book-ended the walk, a two-month cancer survivor named Noelle was given the opportunity to speak. She choked up while telling us that even though this was her sixth time participating in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer, it was her first time walking as a survivor. Then Noelle bravely announced that, despite having a double mastectomy only one week prior, she walked every step of those 39.3 miles, and it was our turn in the audience to choke up.
In that moment with all those people collectively cheering, crying, aching, touching, smiling, it was truly palpable. "It" being missing my sister, worrying about my friend. "It," of course, being that every person has their own stories of love and loss and hope. It was an experience to be had. And we all shared it, you included.
You can use this link to view the rest of my pictures from the weekend:
Recently, people have been telling me that I'm looking "well" or "so healthy." I'll admit it too, I sort of love receiving compliments about my appearance (of course, I mean, who doesn't?). Still, I struggle with the art of just taking said compliment.
Nope. Instead, my mind will let it bubble around for the rest of the day, searching for ways to discredit its good intentions. Soon enough, the word "healthy" turns into, "Looks like you've put on some weight." Then I start to wonder how hideous I used to look for someone to point out that I look better now.
Why do I do this to myself, right? I'm an educated, forward-thinking woman with a healthy sense of self worth and body confidence. Not only do I know better than to let myself think this way but I foster a regular habit of admonishing others when they do it. Yet there it is...self-doubt, nagging internal criticism, unnecessary fretting over the width of my hips.
Today's theory is that I'm yet another victim of societal pressures, especially media driven ones like unnatural skinniness, super cool hair and clear, wrinkle-free skin. Another reminder that even when I know full well it's a waste of time to worry about the 15 pounds I managed to find in a matter of weeks (or perhaps it was a mysterious shrinking of ALL my pants?), it doesn't exactly make taking the compliment for what it is any easier.
But, guess what? Today, I may have landed on a formula that will make it much easier.
First, when a precious compliment is given, I will say thank you and genuinely mean it. Then, I'll go ahead bask in the glowy warm goodness that comes with it. Finally, I'll toss aside concerns that I'm falling victim to conditioned ideas of what I should look like and simply love the fact that I am currently enjoying the most impressive cleavage of my life!
Somewhere in those last few days, Mom asked Annika what animal she'd want to come back as. Her simple, poignant desire was to be "a big, beautiful hawk that lives up to its potential." Not surprisingly, each and every hawk sighting since has assumed a deep significance for our family members and many friends, as well.
During the first few years after Annika died, the hole in my heart was so gaping that I couldn't quite believe I'd ever feel genuine happiness again. Of course, eventually -- so slowly I hardly noticed -- the numbing pain began to peel away. It's only been four years, but it took the entirety of that time for my optimistic spirit to resume its place on the front burner. Right around when the optimism returned, I embarked upon something totally out of character. For no apparent reason I was compelled to learn how to run. Yea, you heard me...run, jog, exercise.
Fine, you caught me, there was a reason: I was an unacceptably low on energy, shamefully out-of-shape 35 year old. I simply lacked the energy to get up and go to do the things I wanted to be doing. This fact was brought most painfully to the surface in South Africa when I couldn't make it to the top of Table Mountain. Let us not forget this "hike" involves nearly two hours of climbing 15-inch stairs beneath scorching sun, but the agony of that defeat stayed with me.
Thing is, I'm just like anyone else. Full of New Year's resolutions to get in shape and do things right for a change but generally not seeing through such promises much further than January 2nd. This year, something changed...insert the proverbial mental "click" here. As I'm prone to do, I started things off slow by walking my commute to/from work every day. Shockingly, I stuck with this plan and, by spring, felt compelled to do more than just walk. Clearly, the best plan of action was to work up a sweat alone in my living room, thank you Netflix. Before too long, the opportunity to participate in Santa Barbara's inaugural marathon just happened to present itself. It was July at the time and December seemed a safe five month distance away to go ahead and form a relay team.
Let us just be clear on one thing: I. Am. Not. A. Runner.
In fact, I've long declared that the only time you'd see ME running is if I'm being chased, at which point I'd likely get caught before getting across the street. That's not a joke. I mean, have you ever seen a tall, out-of-shape, skinny chick trying to run? Well, it's funny looking, OK? Besides, it totally hurts the tall, out-of-shape, skinny chick's ankles and knees.
Too late, I paid good money to register for the stupid race and was officially committed (no, not that kind of committed) to do this thing with a friend. Preparations for training included purchasing the whitest possible size 10 sneakers of all time and my first sports bra since at least three presidents ago. Next thing you know, there's Rita trying to run her way around a high school track.
Boy, did it suck!
By the end of the first lap I'd apparently forgotten how to breathe. My heart rate was so high that I couldn't even count the beats of my pulse to calculate actual beats per minute. And, it freakin' hurt...all over. Pretty ego bruising stuff. But, tapping into my optimism and finding the bright side, at least I had a lot of room for improvement!
Alas, by the end of the second week of training I managed to run my left foot into tendinitis bad enough to force two weeks of rest, couldn't even continue my triumphant walks to/from work, dammit!
Being the smart gal that I am, I had sensibly signed myself up for guided training with an experienced runner, Coach Dan, to hold myself accountable on this venture. Brilliant move on my part. Coach Dan honored and supported my goals of simply wanting to be part of a team, to improve my personal health, and to conquer this long term fear of running. Moreover, he made me feel like I was an athlete from day one. And guess what? Athletes get hurt and sometimes have to take time off.
Before I knew it, I was back at the track huffing and puffing my way through practice sessions. I could barely run 1/4 of a mile without having to take a walking break. Keep in mind that my end goal was to run around six miles...that's it, just six simple, easy miles. No matter, I had a good 14 weeks of training to go.
Guess what?
It worked! I stuck with the training at a manageable level, which turned out to be running 2-3 times a week either with the group, a friend or by myself. Pretty soon I was used to being sore everywhere below the waist, all of the time. Week after week, I impressed myself (and the husband) with new found motivation to persevere and suffer through complete and total utter CRAZY that is running.
Time flies when you're running. Well, scratch that. I'm quite certain time in fact slows down when you are actually running but you get my point. Pretty soon, it was December and my awesome team (go SB Tchomies, go!) was prepared: matching t-shirts, support crew boys, pasta dinner, and we're off!
My leg of the relay was 6.4 miles, and my goal was to finish in less than 90 minutes (you do the math, yes, I'm that slow). I was the second runner on our team, taking off just after 8am on the coldest morning we've had so far this season. Cold, yet crisp, bright, clear, and utterly motivating. For the first time ever I managed to keep my pace steady, passing nobody and being passed by everyone (including Santa...for reals). Still, this was my first ever experience being anywhere near a marathon -- let alone in it -- and I caught the fever quickly!
How much fun is this? Strangers all along the course cheer you on and the buzz flowing across all the runners is a surprisingly powerful shared experience to be had. Turns out all those stories of race day adrenaline are true, go figure. Before I know what's even happening, I've run over 35 minutes straight without having taken a walking break...a first by over 15 minutes! I think, at this point, I psyched myself out and worried that I wouldn't be able to finish my portion if I tried to keep running to the end. I let myself walk for only 30 seconds and went back to it, but I could feel that I was losing steam.
When I passed mile marker 11, which put me at 4.2 miles into my leg, my attention was caught by two crows making a raucous off the side of the road. Just on a reflex, I turned to look at the birds flitting around the top of a large tree. That's when I saw it.
A big, beautiful hawk sitting still on the tree.
Momentum kept me from stopping in my tracks. Still, I couldn't help but look back at that hawk at least ten times. Was this really happening right now? Could Annika be here, showing me her support during the craziest thing I've ever tried?
But there I was, running stronger and further than I'd ever imagined possible in this tall, out-of-shape, skinny body. And there was this hawk, offering the reminder that my sister always supported my efforts to live up to my own potential. I struggled a bit to maintain my composure during what was positively an emotional, spiritual highlight of my entire life. Then, I focused on the task at hand and finished my leg -- ten minutes faster than planned -- breathlessly and unabashedly happy.
One bright morning this summer, I find myself utterly engaged in my peaceful walking commute to work: giant pine trees shrugging off dew, dozens of birds performing overhead, shadows protecting my shoulders from the warm sun, sweet kitty cats stretching in driveways. In this simple sidewalk moment comes the unexpected revelation, "Hot damn, my good mood is back!"
In fact, I feel more like myself these days than since before I knew any better. Since before the old self-confidence took an unplanned, extended vacation. Since back when Annika was just my little sister, the taller one who also snorts when she laughs. Since back when she was always around. When Annika was just my little sister...not my sick sister, not my dying sister, not my dead sister.
Hindsight being 20/20 and all, I'm a pretty lucky lady. Not very many of us make it to age 31 before experiencing a broken heart. That's right, I got to spend three whole decades living in relative ignorance (and you know what that means).
Of course, there's a flip side to living in bliss for so long. When the turning point eventually arrives, the change in outlook is drastic. All of a sudden, certain aspects of life come into an appalling focus -- like the realization there's nothing and nobody that's going to be able to save her -- and you finally start to get just how much you've been missing, how much you haven't understood. And you aren't sure it's been for the better. I wanted to go back immediately to before life got so horribly out of control and every little thing didn't feel so dreadfully heavy.
Early on in my grief process, it occurred to me for the first time how downright rotten and wretched the world really is. It dawned on me that this life we've been handed might just be a big steaming pile of it-ain't-worth-the-unending-suffering. All the joy was suddenly zapped out of all my favorite things. I mean everything; I couldn't wear mascara for a year.
For the longest time, I was under this faulty impression that grief is finite with a clear ending point. By next week, I'll have this figured out. After six months, I'll be all better. After a year, it won't hurt any more. I mean, that's what all the literature says, "Just give yourself a year." Well, the year came and went and nothing felt lighter. The only thing that seemed to have changed was my eye makeup.
It took a while to realize that the ability to wear mascara again was, indeed, a sign of healing. It took longer still to understand that my grief isn't ever going to end, but that it will change.
It has changed.
At the start of this year, I set two simple intentions: 1. walk to/from work every day (I've stuck with it, too; you're impressed, I can tell), and 2. to lighten UP already and stop being so depressed aboutthings I cannot control. Truth be told, lightening up is an intention I've set many-a-time since Annika died, always to no avail. While there are likely a multitude of factors contributing to this year's actual success, the passage of time is the primary suspect.
On September 30th, it will be four years. Four years of missing her everyday. Four years of accepting her unacceptable absence. Four years of applying and re-applying patches to a broken heart.
Without really noticing the transition, lately I find myself interacting with her from a place of happiness, pleasure even. All of her stuff that is now my stuff has been sorted, distributed, incorporated. I'm remembering her tenacity, her gangly goofiness, her great fashion sense, her extraordinarily deep love of family; remembering without automatically connecting the memories with her death. Other things are easier now, too. Spending time with family and casually wondering aloud what she'd have to say about what we're up to. Walking down the street and hiding laughter, not tears, behind my sunglasses.
That pledge to a walking commute in January leads to participation on a relay team for a marathon in December. The subsequent decision to go ahead and devote time in my day to cooking at home results in a magnificently fulfilling obsession with kitchen creativity. The self-confidence has at long last returned from hiatus and, thankfully, had the sense to bring my good mood back with it.
The first few years our backyard was smaller and it was on the other side of the fence. One of the neighbor boys tended to it when the time came, selling the bounty for rent money. There was even that one time Fuckin' Rick left a smoldering log at its base all night. The still quite prominent three-foot scar 'tis but a flesh wound that in no way hinders the giant, eighty-odd year old, absurdly prolific Mission Fig Tree.
Eventually, the husband expanded the borders of our fence to include the Tree, which became the perfect centerpiece for our outdoor living space. Or so we thought. Life with the Tree is great during the winter, when the branches are bald and cast interesting shadows across the yard. But when those first baby buds begin to emerge come spring, our relationship with the Tree takes a turn. Personally, I quite enjoy the remodeling process of what appears to be a naked, harmless tree converting itself into a fig factory. Alas, for the husband, it only marks the onset of this year's battle with his nemesis. He likes to call it the "droppin' shit season." Mostly he's talking about the leaves and the fruit; but sometimes he just means the bird shit, of the exceedingly sticky, purple fig seed variety.
With every season comes the threat that "THIS is the year I'm cutting that bleeping thing down!" Which is predictably countered with threats of divorce -- and wouldn't that be a silly reason to separate -- or promises to tie myself to the trunk -- and wouldn't he be sorry if he chain sawed his wife along with our aged, defenseless Tree.
See, the real tragedy is neither of us, in fact, like to eat the figs. They're sort of bland, and a bit icky. And let's be frank, how many hundreds of seeds does one two-inch piece of fruit really need? (Has anyone ever witnessed those seeds becoming trees? I mean, baby fig trees are delivered by stork, right?) Then there's the parade of critters that use the Tree as their personal cafeteria: raccoons, opossums, ten different kinds of bird, and, you know, other stuff, worse stuff. Consequently, the season pretty much means we're a couple of fig pushers. This part I quite enjoy, actually. People get so excited over a few strawberry baskets full of fresh Mission Figs; it's kind of awesome.
Still, unrelenting fig pushing is never sufficient. There are always more figs: more figs on the Tree, more figs on the ground, on our shoes/staining the carpet, more figs in the the trash. Truthfully, this never used to bother me. I mean, you know, the Tree is beautiful and it's fun to give away fruit; but the Tree is also mean. The leaves are scratchy and cause a rash on one's arms after harvest. There's this vicious, stingy milk in the stem and peel of the fruit that literally burns one's flesh if one does not use protection. The Tree does not want to make it easy, for anyone. So, the subsequent waste was all right, until it finally dawned on me that these figs are FOOD, man! What in the local, organic-loving world are we doing letting this free food go to waste?
"Hence," she declared, "This is the year we'll learn to love the figs!"
The project began the moment those green touches began to speckle the winter branches. At first, it was a little inkling in the back of my mind, a nudge, a poke. The husband casually mentioned how much he actually enjoyed those dried figs in that one salad at that one restaurant. Check! A friend sends me a simple preserves recipe she's used with her own backyard crops. Check! Then, the Tree filled out and the figs inserted their own color splashes in the yard.
The next thing I know, it's here: Fig Week.
All my big talk of being ready for it this time is coming to literal fruition. For the last several days, my culinary world has revolved exclusively around this one-woman production -- from picking to prepping to preserving. Fig after fig, after fig. I don't think I've ever had so much fun in my kitchen, it's fig-tastic! My first ever attempt at making jam was a mild success. Nine half-pint jars of runnier than expected, yet simply gorgeous, deeply purple Drunken Fig Preserves are quickly being spoken for amongst all those fig lovin' friends. Baking sheets dotted with shriveling fig halves have occupied all oven real estate for three days and counting.
For all this pleasure derived from food production, not to mention the bragging about it on Facebook, the husband and I have yet to actually taste the final results (I know, I know, rookie mistake, always sample the goods, whatever). There's a bit of trepidation in the air. What if, after all the fuss, what if we still don't like the taste of the figs?
Well, no matter. At least there are a few lessons to be gleaned from the experience:
Whatever the form -- fresh, dried or jammed -- a fig pusher is always well received.
Kitchen food production from backyard harvest is tremendously enjoyable and never a waste of time.
...or wait. Maybe they did warn us. But whatever, we don't tend to heed such warnings when we're young and invincible, now do we?
Alternate title: Things We Never Thought Would Happen to Us...But Did
1. Adult Acne - Seriously, folks. I think we can all agree that this one of the cruelest little jokes ever, can we not? There are actually some hazy pre-teen memories of my mom complaining about this very thing. But I must have figured it was an isolated incident or perhaps I assumed she was just kidding. At any rate, bumps on the face have been such a constant companion these past twenty-odd years that, come to think of it, I'm not even sure I'd know what to do without their presence. I'd probably find some other way to spend my time and facial product money.
2. Biological Clock- For years, this one sounded like the biggest bunch of malarkey to me. That is, until one day the incessant clock ruckus woke me from my peaceful slumber. I find it interesting. In our culture, we're so hell bent on defying our natural instincts. We combat aging, we manage our anger, we drive in four-wheeled death traps, for crying out loud. Not that far of a stretch, really, to want to be-still the internal tickity-tocks. It's something over which I continue to slap the snooze button.
3. Screaming Children = Nails on a Chalkboard - Let me just preface: I adore children. Just not when they're screaming. I was most definitely a child who exercised my screaming muscles frequently -- gleefully even -- without giving it a thought. It was easy to dismiss parental fears of "what will the neighbors think we're doing to you?" How else was I to express myself, after all? Fast-forward to present day: we live across the street from two homes which must house a minimum of a dozen children, each. Summertime always finds said children running around their yards and driveways, screeching their little hearts out...often until nearly 11pm. Sure, they're having a blast, but, at my expense, is it really worth it? Sigh. Probably.
5. LOVE - Hindsight being 20/20 and all, I really had no concept of how completely filled with love my childhood was. One of my many blessings that I've only just begun to grasp. Curious, and a weensy bittersweet, how it takes an understanding of the suffering of others to finally appreciate one's own good fortune. Love: a surprisingly time consuming, energy devouring endeavor. Sure, love is patient and love is kind. But love is also work and requires our constant, devoted attention. We have to live it, give it, eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Nurture it, never stop perfecting our ability to offer it to everyone around us, everything around us, everyone and thing that we'll never come across.
For most of my adult life, I've considered myself to be a multi-tasker, a good one at that. However, lately I'm thinking I may have had it all wrong. I am no multi-tasker. Rather, I am deeply set in my one-thing-at-a-time ways; a fact brought to my much tormented attention this week.
How did that happen, you ask? Well, I'll tell you.
Obsessions.
If you must know, this week's obsession comes in the form of a series of young adult novels by Scott Westerfeld. Maybe you'd heard of them? Book one: Uglies. Book two: Pretties. Book three: Specials.
At any rate, about two months ago, I started this fantastic routine of setting my alarm 30 minutes earlier than normal, dragging my ass out of bed right away, downing a glass of water and EXERCISING! And it was really paying off, too. Life was great, my body felt great, my food choices were improving on a daily basis. This new lifestyle was quickly becoming a habit I looked forward to.
Then I picked up Uglies. My focus redirected at head-spinning pace. Getting up early to read until the clock insisted I get ready for work because I'd read away every last possible free morning moment seemed like the best choice I could be making. This morning, as I instinctively reached across the pillow, flipped on the light and dove into the book (halfway through Specials, which was started last night), it finally hit me.
In a matter of ten measly days, my fabulous exercise routine was reduced to gloriously long stretches (no, not that kind of stretch) of lying down -- bed, couch, floor, no matter to me -- and reading. Just reading. Reading. Reading. Reading...
Single-minded. One-thing-at-a-time. Obsessed.
It rattles me that one's self-image can be so off target for so many years of one's life. It's not exactly that the notion of being a multi-tasker so deeply defined me; but I suppose sometimes you just don't know what you've got 'till it's gone.
Boy howdy, it sure could explain a lot, this revelation o' mine.
Perhaps this is why my school grades always sank while taking 6-7 courses at once but soared when narrowed down to 2-3 at a time. [Note to self: the few months each at Evergreen and UCSB are different since I was living on my own for the first time. One could put forth that learning how to take care of business is why I had to drop out of college; you know, seeing as I'm not a multi-tasker.]
Next, perhaps this contributes to my tendency to get overwhelmed, lose patience, shut down brain function when trying to be comfortable within a large group. Attending parties where there are lots of people who I don't know is always cause a bit of anxiety. I tend to find myself hovering around only those who I already know, all the while marveling at the husband's knack for diving into all sorts of fascinating conversations with strangers. It's not that I'm not a people person, it's just that I'm not a multiple-people-at-once person.
I'm really on to something here!
Indeed, I think I've been creeping towards this new self-awareness for the last several months. In February, as the holidays had worn thin and my waistline picked up the slack, I began to accept that my aging body is just going to have to look at exercise as a fact of life. Little by little -- and sheer force of will -- I managed to turn my daily work commute in to exercise.
Quickly, I realized that the walking alone was not enough; my body was already craving more movement. Nice! I spent the last couple of months diligently weaving an actual workout into 3-4 mornings a week, which I mentioned above. Along with this new habit, I have worked on meal plans, shopping locally/organically, cooking and eating at home as often as possible. Sure, it's time consuming, but the benefits are too significant to ignore.
It was finally clear to me now: all I have to do is take good care of my body and then I'll be able to do the other things I long to do, like write! Slowly and surely, I built physical strength, overcame the tendency to eat a pound of chocolate in daily sittings, and enjoyed the extra energy.
Then, summer arrived. Sweet summer, that mistress o' mine. Gloriously long, warm days filled with endless fun activities that surely cannot be passed up by any rational person. Trips, parties, concerts, events fill my every waking moment. The next thing I know, my workouts were bumped off the regular schedule and the summer reading list took over.
And here we are. Today. Clarity presents itself. Then confirms my suspicions as I bear witness to last week's powerhouse of multi-tasking come crumbling down around me. Turns out I don't have the willpower to just put the book down and exercise instead. The bod is stiff and sore from bursts of activity followed by long periods of stagnation (aka reading) and going out for food rather than cooking at home. Moreover, it turns out I don't have a clean record of not making scheduling mistakes at work. This morning at least five separate error rose to the murky surface. Blast it!
One thing I do have going for me is the willingness to be shocked and appalled by myself. That, and taking it straight to the written word. My goal when I started the whole diet/exercise thing, after all, was to work my way into including writing in my daily schedule once again.
You know how it goes; you've probably even done it yourself. You're at a shindig and the occasional acquaintance sitting next to you turns and asks, "Soooo, what are you doing for work?" And you think to yourself, "How many times has this particular person asked me this particular question and they still don't know the answer?"
Then you start to question your work. What IS my job anyway? It's somewhat of a sore subject in some regards because my answer -- "I manage a small doctor's office where I'm the only employee" -- doesn't really lead to much further discussion about what I do, who I am. And, at this ripe age of middle thirties, there's beginning to be a bit of judgment in response to my answer, which quite frankly is coming from both sides of the table.
What is this woman doing with her life, anyway?
Well, I'm paying the bills for one thing. Besides that, I've begun to delve a little deeper into the conversation about my work when posed the question. It's been nearly fifteen years now (gasp!) that I've been hopping around office jobs, just trying to keep afloat and stay put in this little paradise of a town. For the last six years, I've been in the same office working one-on-one with a "going to retire someday" hand doctor. Here's a surgeon who always runs on time, looks his patients in the eye, and never operates unnecessarily. He's the very first boss I've ever had who has treated me with the respect and trust that I earn as a dependable employee. And I never have to ask for time off, I just take it...how sweet is that?
Let's face it: we've all been on the patient side of the waiting room and we all have doctor's office horror stories.
What this job has given me is the opportunity to save our patients from that experience of feeling like a number, of not feeling heard or cared about. I'm blessed with time in our daily schedule to listen to them share their painful (and sometimes completely, insanely inappropriate) experiences. I get to empathize and sympathize and ease their suffering. My job is in a doctor's office where our patients leave feeling as though their questions and concerns have been addressed, not dismissed. And it's my pleasure to help these crazy sons of bitches, too.
So, what I do is that.
Plus, I'm a writer who is trying desperately to be able to confidently say "I am a writer" without the addendum of "but I'm not really writing anything right now." Damn it if that's a tall order, but I'm getting there.
Yesterday was like a hangover. I had to send myself home early from work to sob my little heart out on the couch. At first, I cried because it didn't feel like I was happy enough that the right man won the election. That pesky problem with staying in the moment really challenged my ability to absorb the significance of the day. And my ego worked its way in there some, too.
In high school, I was deeply obsessed with everything sixties. Oh, how I longed to have come of age in that era so I could have participated in the social movements, been witness to the changes taking place. It didn't seem possible that I would ever live through anything as significant as what went down in the decade prior to my birth.
And then I started to witness some things:
first voting experience in 1992, electing Clinton
the fall of the Berlin Wall
the Gulf War
grunge and Kurt Cobain's death
Nelson Mandela freed from prison, elected president of his nation
two stolen elections
9/11
wars in Iraq and Afghanistan
hurricanes
tsunamis
genocide
traveling abroad
LIVE MUSIC
marrying a true love
nine, going on ten, nieces and nephews
too many years of illness and the death of a sibling
college graduation
Barack Obama elected president
All of these things make up our lives. Yet, it wasn't enough for me. The progress of humanity wasn't fast enough for me. That sinking feeling that we're never going to get it right -- it's all been too little and too late -- pinned me to the couch in my personal despair.
It didn't feel like I thought it would feel when I was a teenager, this witnessing of momentous change in our country's -- hell, our world's -- history. My naive idealism had me thinking such a victory would heal the millions of hidden scratches just as surely as the obvious gaping wounds. When reality didn't match my imagination, I got sad and allowed my brain to concentrate on severe pessimism. How could I celebrate when we're still involved in two hopeless wars? What about over-population, global warming and the coming the machine people? How could I be happy about our president-elect when Californiansactually passed Proposition 8 on the same day? What's my damned problem for letting myself miss out on the pure joy of this moment?
Then the television caught my attention. It was Martin Luther King, Jr., urgently reminding me of the bigger picture:
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
This slapped me in the face, sat me right up and cleared my eyes of the tears. All kinds of perspective came running through the door, tackling me with a swift kick in the ass. I had to laugh at myself for letting it go too far.
No matter how slow I think humans are changing our ridiculous ways, I have to admit that we are changing. We can only move one generation at a time, can't we? No matter how slow it feels while you live it one day at a time, we are inching our way towards tolerance and right action. No matter how much we want it to be perfect now, we can't reasonably expect all of our ignorance to end at one time in one place. If we do expect that, we're just going to end up a limp, crying mess on the couch. And, really, what does that do to help bring us together?
So, there I was. Age thirty-four being snapped out of a personal crisis of faith in humanity with the realization that I'm dangerously close to being a grumpy old man because I expected everything could be fixed within my own lifetime. Let's call it a moment of clarity. And humility. And, of course, perspective. Thank you MLK.
Today is one of the most beautiful that I've ever seen in Santa Barbara. It's bathwater warm outside. The air smells clean and crisp. The sky is the clearest blue. The sea is sparkling against the huge islands, which reflect their counterparts rising up proudly behind our bustling little city. Neighbors and strangers are greeting each other warmly, enthusiastically, with genuine appreciation for one another.
It's a new day, indeed; and here's what I know: we have got to work pretty damned hard on lightening up and love is the answer.
It's election night and here I am with clowns to the left of me and jokers to the right, feeling stuck in the middle with myself. Actually, truth be told, I'd probably place somewhere in the midst of the clowns if you're going with the political metaphor. But that's not what I meant.
Frankly, I'm plumb worn out by this business of living. There's so much to be nervous about these days that I've found it difficult to be present, no matter what it is that I'm doing. A simple jaunt downtown to support local farmers and cart home this week's stock of organically grown produce can lead to an existential crisis complete with tear-stained cheeks before I can get myself out of the crosswalk. I'm torn right down the middle. Either I'm caring far too much about every single ridiculous, destructive human soul or I'm counting down the minutes until whatever doomsday device -- nuclear fallout, killer virus, alien invasion, locusts -- finally delivers Mother Earth her much deserved sweet release from us over-populated masses of idiots who think we have a friggin' clue as to what we're doing here.
I mean, I'm just sayin...
I'm just saying that people have been inhabiting the earth, forming governments and religions and philosophies and sciences and arts and he saids and she saids for thousands and thousands of years and we haven't really made a helluva lot of progress (betcha I can use and in a sentence more times than you and you and you).
I'm just saying that if you found yourself some random quote about government from, say, Napoleon (like I saw somewhere or another today), you'd find yourself scratching your head swearing you heard a political pundit on CNN say that very same thing just last night.
I'm just saying that if you consulted Shakespeare for a lesson in classic storytelling, you'd find that when it comes to the human condition, about the only things that have changed significantly are formalities like clothes and mannerisms.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
What sets me to worrying about having been so hyper-focused on this stuff is that I am now one of two things. Either I am on the slippery slope of taking everything far too seriously; thereby sucking all the fun, beauty and hopeful possibilities out of my one shot at life. Or, I am already at the bottom of said slope and have utterly lost my formerly effortless knack for lightening the fuck up.
See?
Clowns -- Me -- Jokers
I'm just saying that this election has me on edge. Or maybe that's just my excuse of the moment.
Lately, as my friends will attest, I've been borderline fervent that "my" generation (and those that have followed "mine") have fallen victim to a raging case of entitlement. Which, I've observed, has turned us into a sorry bunch of apathetic, uninvolved, uninspired -- and uninspiring -- whiners. It's maddening and often sends me into weeks of the poor-me mopes when I notice my annoying active participation as a member of the club. How did we manage to land smack in our adulthood without a real sense of who we are? How did we get here without a stimulating, motivating passion for something, anything?
Was it that we weren't taught what it is to have a work ethic? Was it the glutton of the 1980s and 90s that confused us? Was it that the technology boom overwhelmed us with multi-media distractions?
I wish I knew. I wish I knew how to inspire myself and those around me into productivity and right action.
But first things first -- gotta check my email. ==========
OK, back.
This afternoon I'm, once again, crying over something I saw on the Internet. It's not over the content of the You Tube video, although it is moving; rather, it's the sense of hope that people might actually be doing alright in spite of all the obstacles we've put in our way.
I'm reminded that there are, of course, creative, intelligent and active folks out there representing and working hard to inspire our generation to knock of the entitlement apathy nonsense. For all the crap that technology brings us, I can't forget to check out all the beauty and good that comes along with it. I can't give up on the possibility that we might turn out OK, after all.
For the better part of a decade, this hardcover book lay dormant under my bed, collecting dust bunnies. That was back when I wasn't reading books. Pity. My mom had given it to me, and I remember distinctly how highly she recommended I take a look at it.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago when at least three, if not more, women insisted that I drop all other books and just read The Poisonwood Bible already because it is a life-changer. Say no more; and, boy howdy, were they correct.
This is one of those books that you read and it just about knocks your whole self right over -- repeatedly and profoundly. You find yourself breathing long sighs of relief that you are not the only person who has come to view the world in these ways. By the time you reach the last word of the last sentence, the magic of a nearly perfectly told story has somehow lightened the burden of knowledge of the tragic, beautiful suffering that is humanity. You are moved another step closer to understanding that we are at once witnesses and participants in each other's stories, of our far away histories, of the non-stop mysterious ways of this complex world. Another step closer to grasping muntu -- all that is here. It is what it is. We are what we are. I am all that is here and so are you and you and you. The good, the evil, the incredible, the horrendous. We are what we are, mistakes and all.
At least, that's what it did for me. And I'm awfully tempted to turn around back to page one and read it all over again.
P.S. Actually, that's not all I got out of this book. In the interest of keeping track of how reading novels is helping me understand how to tell a story, I have to mention it. Each chapter in this book is told from the perspective of one of the five Price family women, primarily the four daughters. Not a new method, by any means, but this book offered me that elusive a-ah moment. I get it now: the concept that each character in a story believes themselves to be 100% correct. Each character has their unique point of view and that is how they should come across to the reader. And, in order for that to happen, the writer must explore corners of each and every character that the reader will never see described on the page, but will come to understand nevertheless. Such a simple concept (that I've nodded along with many times) with a complex application (that is daunting yet exciting) and is absolutely essential to a good story.
P.P.S. In the aftermath of reading The Poisonwood Bible I put down some words to remind myself what I'm taking away from the experience. It's a rare day that I write a poem, and, when I do, they never follow any rules of poetry, as far as I can tell. But, a poem nonetheless.
Forgive yourself the times in which you live Forgive yourself the times that came before you Forgive the mistakes you have made Forgive but do not forget Forgive and continue moving on Forgive and be free of the weight that halts your steps
Around about the time I got home from South Africa, something possessed me: the desire to be tan. Which is entirely out of character. Normally, I'm the girl hiding under a hat, an umbrella, long-sleeve shirts and layers of SPF 45. I'm the girl who proudly returned from a week on the beaches in Costa Rica without so much as a whisper of a hint of color on my hide.
But there I was, every afternoon throughout the entirety of spring, sitting in the sunniest parts of the back yard exposing my chest, stomach and legs. It became a ritual I really looked forward to with my after-work beer and the book of the week. "I must need the vitamin D," I'd hear myself explain to the husband. He'd humor me with a grin, but always took the opportunity to remind me how much he happens to love my usual glow-in-the-dark tones.
Oh, how I fancied my golden-tan on graduation morning as I zipped up the favorite brown, strapless dress. Everything about the dress and accessories were enhanced by the color I'd so diligently worked on for the last couple of months.
A few weeks later, we found ourselves hanging with the family on the beach. What a glorious time we had playing in the water and visiting in the cloudless, perfect bikini-weather summer day. At the time, it seemed an entirely reasonable decision to copy the gaggle of girls with their countless re-applications of spray on coconut oil. I had a solid base, after all.
Wrong again.
My obsession got away from me and came back in the form of a raging virgin-sunburn on my stomach and upper thighs that lasted the better part of a month. Thanks to my coveted lotions and potions, I didn't blister; but a truly impressive peeling phase lasted two whole weeks.
Now, I'm left with this sort of asymmetrical reverse reminder of my bikini when I look in the mirror. For once in my life, the red of a sunburn didn't return my skin to the usual white but has become slightly less white. There's nobody in the world who would examine my belly and call it tan...except for me. Even better, it's only my front half that received punishment. My back half remains the same, pre-South Africa white with a very discernible front/back delineation on my outer calves.
One might argue that I got what I wanted with this Summer 2008 "Tan" o' Mine. Yet, this is not anywhere near what I'd envisioned. This palette resembles more of a poorly designed patchwork quilt of unfamiliar body parts.
Who is this person following me around, wearing my clothes, attached to me below the neck?
Aretemis Fowl: The Lost Colony Aretemis Fowl: The Time Paradox by Eoin Colfer
These are the most recent in a series of six books (so far) about the once selfish-criminal mastermind turning reluctant-bleeding heart, Aretemis Fowl. In these books, he's reached the ripe old age of fourteen and is finding puberty to be a pesky, distracting force as he, once again, saves the world for both the humans above ground and the fairies below ground. The series is aimed at the grammar school/younger junior high aged kids. And, I truly cannot help myself but adore them. They're a lighthearted, fantasy reading ride with not so subtle positive message undertones that take an afternoon or two to complete, cover to cover. In my now habitual process of reading a book from a writer's perspective, I picked up some good stuff with these two.
Lately, I've been trying to figure out how to break free of my very stubborn linear patterns. I'm not exaggerating when I say that it has been excruciatingly painful for me to attempt writing a story -- or an essay or a blog or a grocery list -- out of linear sequence. Obviously, my logical side agrees that it's terribly limiting to confine oneself to writing ANYthing in a start-to-finish timeline. Sadly, it's not my logical side that does the writing.
Both The Lost Colony and The Time Paradox revealed to me the very many places the writing of a story can begin. All of those clever bits of foreshadowing in the early chapters very likely were written long after the resolution of events at the end. Same goes for the final pages' tidy wrapping up of the plot while gently reminding us how the current adventure got started in the first place.
It's not that I haven't been taught this notion before or didn't understand the theoretical concept. Because, trust me, it's been pointed out ad nauseum and I always agree that it certainly does make perfect sense, doesn't it. This was, honestly, the first time that I finally saw that it's not a very good plan at all to even attempt to begin at the beginning, particularly when telling a mysetery/fantasy type of a tale.
I had the proverbial light bulb moment.
Which inspires me to give humongous thanks to the Aretemis Fowl stories and the deceivingly simple formula that each one follows that have allowed me to grasp the theory. Now, just to put it into a working practice. That's the real trick.
Just as I was gearing up for a mega-grumpy-poor-me-why-does-everything-have-to-suck-so-much sort of an evening, the work day up and taught me a few lessons in you-better-be-thankful-for-what-you-got.
1. A nineteen year-old kid who has been wheelchair bound essentially his entire life. He wears coke-bottle glasses and has had multiple surgeries on his back, both legs/ankles, and both arms/wrists, which have hardly made a dent in correcting his severe contractures. Yet, he enters our office with a cheerful grin offering praises for the convenient size of our building's elevator in relation to his electric wheelchair. He and his mother are a loud talking, tag-team of positivity, despite the near constant pain that he experiences in multiple parts of his body.
2. A pair of 2-year old identical twins. One of them is our patient with just a minor repair to a couple of webbed fingers. The family has been an absolute model of compliance and effective communication between patient and surgeon. The kids (only 2 years old, don't forget) already understand how to use please/thank you (nice job mom and dad!) and, they never forget to shout a cheerful goodbye, always in unison. But, boy howdy, are they energetic guys!
3. A 71-year old gorgeous woman (I'm talking jaw-dropping beautiful), who came in for an arthritic finger, shared with me that she's a four-year survivor of pancreatic cancer. In case you don't already know know, the one-year survival rate for this cancer is only 20% and falls to something like 4% within five years. Anyway, this woman is bright eyed, tanned with a sassy, gray haircut and has one seriously amazing 71-year old butt. She tells me that she's planning a bike trip in Minnesota in September and that she's a runner and a knitter, among other things I'm sure. She'll plan her finger surgery around her many adventures.
4. A 67-year old cutie pie of a woman with severe osteoandrheumatoid arthritis comes wobbling in, determined to walk on her own two legs, supported by her husband and a cane. Her outfit is accssorized with homemade jewelry; she's cracking jokes, just as sweet as can be. The reason she's visiting us is to figure out what she can do with her hands so that she can continue playing golf. Golf! She can't walk on her own but she's an athlete nonetheless.
5. The husband and his summer kids knock on my office door around 2:30pm. I open to find them all dressed up like zombies: shredded hoodies, face paint, giant tombstones, one of the kids inside a cardboard coffin. Are you kidding me?! How am I supposed to stay grumpy with a crew like that standing in my doorway making my sides hurt with light and laughter?
Today's lessons in being grateful for what you've got brought to you by Little Miss Humble Pie.
After years of the husband consistently warning me of the inevitability of his mid-life crisis, IT certainly has arrived this summer. And how.
The poor bubba is feeling rather put out by life (can't say I blame him there). All of a sudden, he's quite concerned that the choices he's made in regards to profession, retirement planning and accumulation of stuff have not been very sound at all. Certainly, I'll never be able to convince him that devoting one's life to raising other people's children is one of the more noble ways to spend a lifetime. Certainly, I'll never be able to convince him that, indeed, there is still time to figure out the retirement game (if, in fact, there will still be a world in which we might retire, but that's another rant). Certainly, I'll never be able to convince him that sorting through the priceless junk we've let accumulate in the garage needn't be completed in one weekend.
Actually, it's not really so bad on my end. Ten years of togetherness has taught me many things. Most important being that I know not to take someone else's mid-life crisis personally. If this had came up earlier in our relationship, I'd probably be good and annoyed with the husband right about now. Instead, I split my time between dishing out the sympathy and instructing him to snap out of it long enough for dinner, please.
The other night, a friend had him listening to a self-help CD. From what I can gather, it's something of a new age version of the old "men are from Mars, women are from Venus" concept. In particular, it describes what's going on in a man's head when he reaches this glorious time of life as being "in the tunnel." It's a simple, user-friendly term symbolically describing what men experience. They get stuck in transition there for a while, somewhere between the breezy, wild light of the early years and the steady, calmer light that comes with proper aging. The tunnel-time of reflecting on a misspent youth and fretting over how much time there is yet to spend earth bound...well, it's a real bitch.
But, hell, nobody ever said you aren't allowed to still have FUN while you are stuck in the middle of the tunnel. Here's where I'm firmly putting my foot down and hold fast to my position on the outside of said tunnel. The husband would surely get trapped in there forever if I wasn't here demanding that he take time out to visit friends, go on a trip, take in a concert or two.
Damn, he sure is lucky to have me on his side.
But even when one partner is deep in the tunnel, it still takes two to tango. Luckily for me, the husband is a wise man who lets me to guide him through the darkness and still manages to rub my feet on a daily basis. This whole thing just makes love him even more than I ever thought possible.
And.
I'm looking forward to the day he emerges from this blasted tunnel.
Honestly, I thought I would have grown out of this unsatisfactory personality trait by now. Yet, here I am at thirty-four years old, still drawing a panicky blank when asked a direct question for which I have not rehearsed an answer. The most common deer in the headlights moment is when asked what is my favorite anything. Even if it's the sweet husband calling from the store to thoughtfully ask if there's anything I need, my mind draws an annoying, tidy blank.
My seemingly limitless naivety had me believing that going back to school would magically knock me out of the brain freeze pattern, but all it's really done is painfully call my attention to the problem ever more acutely.
This week, I noticed the syndrome spilling over into social situations and simple conversations. When attending a party, I find myself sort of meandering about, never really talking to anyone at length, because it muddles my thinking. The bossman might ask me what I think about a certain current event and my thoughtful, whip-smart response doesn't surface until the moment has long passed. Don't ever point a video camera at me and expect to be enlightened by my stuttering.
What I really hate to admit is that this is all related to my personal fears...of going deep, of taking risks, of being specific, providing evidence, of being successful and a failure. Annika would be nodding her head and raising her eyebrows at me in "I told you so" agreement right about now. When I think about where I get stuck in my writing, it's always at the details, always at taking it to the raw-level feelings. That's an uncomfortable, scary space that I've gotten too adept at avoiding. My vulnerable, loving heart so desperately tries to remain innocent that its managed to totally block off large portions of my brain.
It's very vexing.
Sure, yes, of course I'm exaggerating my brain freezes a teensy bit. Seeing as I've trapped myself in this pattern for over three decades, it's all fairly manageable. One becomes skilled in letting it go after saying something ridiculously awkward. I'll just have to live with the fact that I'll never make it on Jeopardy.
Well, it happened. That right of passage into female adulthood that we never exactly see coming. On the very same day that I noticed on myself what appears very much to be something of a beer belly, some dude asked me if I'm pregnant. Now, considering the social idiocy level of the question asker, I opted not to get too upset about it. Still, it hasn't been easy shake the fact that it -- something I've heard happening to other women -- has now happened to me.
This occurred on Saturday evening, the day after the long-awaited college graduation. And what an incredible graduation it was. The power of transformation that is possible by sending yourself back to school as an adult is breathtaking. This weekend, all of my family within reasonable driving distance came to celebrate with me and share the group pride in this personal accomplishment.
It has taken me years, now, to finally understand just how amazing this group of people that I was born into really are. Sometimes you just have to get out there and compare what you thought you didn't have to what everyone else has got before you sincerely appreciate where you already are.
Ahh, the life of an artist, right? What is it that drives us to make things harder for ourselves before we see the light, have the epiphany, set ourselves free to materialize the vision? We seem to crave the struggle.
I have to admit it, though, I'm a little bit in love with the notion of being able to call myself an artist. It appeals to my tendency to make things more difficult than they need to be. The stretches of idea incubation, preparing for its eventual arrival, laboring (frequently involving body aches, sweat and tears) to push it out of my mind and into the real world. The exhausted, exhilarated celebration of the tangible creation; the ooohing and ahhing when shared with others.
So, anyway, that's me post-graduation. Pregnant with potential. My babies are in there: gestating, growing, working their way towards the brutal, beautiful light of this world.
As a lover of plans and schedules, I knew the concept of "Africa time" would be a challenge for me. Indeed, since moving to Santa Barbara, my punctuality has relaxed significantly (I now arrive on time rather than fifteen minutes early); still, I can't help but get anxious when things aren't running according to my meticulously laid out plans.
Wednesday morning, I kept Africa time in mind when the rental car wasn't delivered at 9:30am, as we'd arranged (and confirmed). I tried to act casual at breakfast, admiring Susie craft another picture-journal masterpiece with her tin of colored pencils. Soon, though, I was pacing The Backpack between our room, triple-checking my bags, and the cafe -- glaring into the quiet parking lot. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and called the rental agency. "Not to worry, there was a mix up about the drop-off address. You've been given a free upgrade." Phew! Less than ten minutes later, our teensy-tiny, bright-red, stick-shift-on-the-wrong-side Ford Fiesta appeared.
At first, it didn't look like all of our luggage was going to fit inside the trunk, which was crucial. Much like San Francisco, it's recommended to leave nothing in the car that's visible from the outside because break-ins are quite common. Susie asked what our upgrade was exactly, since we already knew we'd gotten the smallest, least fancy car that still had air conditioning. "CD player," the delivery man answered simply.
Doh! We totally forgot to pack driving music!
By the time we finished up the paperwork and solved the puzzle of jamming our luggage into the trunk, Hannah arrived in Foxy. Immediately, she presented us with "Santa Barbara to South Africa: the SusieRita Driving CD," plus the red, beaded wire flower we'd been admiring on Foxy's dash all week. Susie volunteered to drive (there was really no choice due to my obvious paralyzing fear of wrong side of the road city driving), and we followed Hannah onto the highway.
Soon, we arrived at the Montebello Design Center, a beautiful artists' studio/showroom community set up in a series of old farm buildings. This is where we could find some those amazing Mielie handbags, like Hannah carries, and other ethically produced/sold Southern African crafts. This place was so still and beautiful, situated below a series of enormous pine trees so high you could barely see the tops. We strolled around, shopping, checking out artists at work in their potting studios and the forge. This place even had a little organic Farm Store! I was so excited to see bulk grains and organic fruits for sale (don't forget: it's the little things). Susie picked up some intensely gingery ginger cookies for the road.
All too soon, it was time for Foxy-Hannah lead us to the N2 highway and we were off into the wild: all by ourselves. The N2 heading east out of Cape Town (the same route we took to Stellenbosch two days prior) leads you along the edges of Khayelitsha, the largest township in Cape Town. It is vast, a definitive reminder of the extremes between the haves and the have-nots in South Africa. Check out what the wonderful Hannah and her network of creative-thinking, eco-minded, world-changing friends have organized to do for one woman and her family (and this is just their first project): MakeDesign.
OK, so we're on the N2 for about an hour. We're groovin' along to our tunes, getting comfortable with the whole wrong side of the road business when BLAM!!! A rock cracks into the windshield in front of me. If there had been any time to think, I'm sure my life would have flashed before my eyes. Following our lady-like shrieks, both of us held our breath, shoulders crunched up into our ears, until eventually coming back in to our bodies. The first words out of our collective mouth, "There goes the damned deposit!"
At the recommendation of our Cape Town friends, we stopped for lunch in a little town called Swellendam, a town with one main drag and a few stop signs. We settled on a restaurant with outdoor seating and enjoyed the first in a series of toasted cheese sandwiches with tomato on "brown bread" meals accompanied by fake gerber daisies on the tables. Although we were only there for a moment, it was an eventful stop in its own way. First, I managed to lock myself in the bathroom for a panicky five minutes and nearly had to climb out of a window in which my hips surely would have gotten lodged. Luckily, my last ditch effort of shaking the daylights out of the lock set me free. Second, a small group of kids walked by while we were waiting for the check. They seemed quite interested in us, so we waved enthusiastically. The last boy in the line wasn't willing to take his eyes off of us for one second and proceeded to smack himself right into a pole. I was glad to know I'm not the only one who does that.
Back into the rental car, who by now we had named Tchomie (an Afrikaaner word for pal/friend that we picked up the other night at Ganesh) -- no more stops until we reached our destination in a little town on the Indian Ocean called Wilderness. One of the main things we learned about personal safety as unaccompanied female tourists in South Africa was never to be driving around in unknown territory after dark. So, imagine our relief upon pulling into The Fairy-Knowe Backpacker at dusk. We welcomed the sight of hippies around the campfire and several adorable dogs trotting about. Unfortunately, the hostess had, merely hours before, decided to give up our reserved room to her brother because we had neglected to confirm our reservation.
Ahem. I mentioned before my attention to detail and unadulterated love for planning ahead. As I recalled, I had in fact confirmed our reservation the week prior via email. Even though the hostess did find said email on her computer, she took advantage of her inane and unclear policy of confirming within three days of the reservation (honestly, who ever heard of such a thing?!), she was at liberty to give away our room.
Whatever.
This is one of those times in life where I was in charge of what we were going to do next, seeing as all of our lodging was planned entirely by me. But, by now, it was rapidly approaching total darkness outside and this woman obviously wasn't going out of her way to give us a place to stay at her establishment.
Whatever.
Still, she assured us she could find us an alternative that was "just as nice." She pulled out a tiny, red backpacker guidebook that I remembered being told by Hannah was the most reliable one around. With a giant leap of faith, we grumpily returned to Tchomie and followed the driving directions back into town, then up a hill out of town, and hesitantly crept down a couple of long dirt roads until we arrived at the Asante Caravan and Camping. It was pretty much dark by the time we arrived and Susie was clearly not thrilled with the situation. In my mind, I absolutely had to make it OK for her, which somehow gave me a whole new relationship with my tendency to need to "stick to the plan, man."
With our guard way up, we were met by Janus, the bare-footed, dread-locked owner of Asante who was playing pool with his staff when we arrived. Immediately, his demeanor and appearance set me at ease because he reminded me so much of my oldest brother. I was now going with the flow, but he hadn't managed to soothe Susie's nerves. Janus lead us down a path to his "only vacant caravan" for the night, sharing with us his praise of the beauty/safety of the area and future plans for his property. (just in case you didn't click the link, a caravan backpacker might sound all magical and delightful, but caravan is just a fancy word for old, small camper without a toilet)
Have I stressed the fact that this place was in the WILDERNESS? not just IN Wilderness? Seeing as we had no other options for the evening, we brought in the bare necessities from Tchomie and headed back into town for another pizza dinner (who knew there was so much incredibly yummy pizza to be had in SA?). It took some doing, but, by the end of the $11 dollar meal (drinks included!), I had convinced Miss Susie that this snafu would be a great story once we were back home. Shortly after this picture was taken, she returned to her usual smiling self and drove us back up the hill to Asante. It was an adventure staying in the caravan. The bathroom was about twenty yards from our caravan and locating the outdoor lights wasn't really possible in the dark. The caravan had that sort of thirty-years old stale smell about it and our "beds" were smaller than the average sofa. But, we slept and that's all we really were there to do.
I fell asleep congratulating myself for my ability to go with the flow of a botched reservation and figured that Africa time might not be such a foreign concept after all.
